Of good dogs and deists

Posted Aug 19, 2019

AP

A Siberian Husky in a Captain America costume takes a dip in the pool during Doggy Con in Woodruff Park, Saturday, Aug. 17, 2019, in Atlanta. Event organizers said they set up dog cooling stations to help prevent dogs from overheating during the event, which occurred on a 90-degree (32.2 Celsius) day. (AP Photo/Andrea Smith)

Some people are deists. They believe in the existence of God, particularly in the role of creator, but don’t believe the Almighty has anything to do with our everyday lives. They think he set universe into motion and then took his hands off.

I am not one of those people.

In the fall of 2005, my husband called and asked me to meet him for lunch. When we sat down, he slid a newspaper clipping across the table to me. “We need one of these.”

It was a picture from the Dothan Eagle’s “Last Chance Pets” ad, a regular feature highlighting animals available for adoption through the Wiregrass Humane Society. He had torn out a picture of not just a single dog, but a full litter of what looked to be Catahoula Leopard Dog puppies.

I said no. I had two preschoolers at home, one of which was barely potty trained. The thought of taking on another mess-maker held little charm for me. But Scooter McCain persisted with the kind of puppy lust usually reserved for children. “Let’s just go look at them. You don't have to commit. But let’s just take a look.”

Our two-year-old named the dog we were just taking a look at Winn-Dixie. She had recently watched the movie Because of Winn-Dixie, and no other name would do. Over time, it got shortened to Dixie because that’s easier to scream at a dog who is eating your porch furniture or tinkling on your antique Persian rug.

She was rowdy and ill-mannered as a puppy, but was loyal and more protective of the children than I was. Over time she mellowed. However, she remained wary of delivery men (Could’ve been anything in those boxes. No sense in taking chances.) and thought that most joggers should really just take another street. But she loved her people deeply—even extended family that she only saw a few times per year.

Because I’m a writer who works from home, she was my only coworker for years. She listened to a million first drafts that I read aloud to her. Her criticism was tough, but fair.

Then in February, the vet gave us the bad news. She had cancer. Because of her advanced age, we agreed that the rigors of treatment were a poor idea. He told us she had anywhere from 2-12 months left.

We took her home and grilled her a ribeye.

When my daddy heard Dixie’s diagnosis, he decided that a dog a special as her needed a dignified send off. So he and my brother got to work in the shop building her an actual coffin, complete with a wooden plaque on the lid engraved with her name. The project got sidetracked for months, but he decided a couple of weeks ago that it must be finished soon, because we didn’t know how much time we had. He and my mother arrived on Thursday, all the way from Rainsville to Dothan, with their delivery.

It bears mentioning that our son, who had been in summer school at Auburn, was also home for a rare, brief window in between school terms. He woke me at 4:30 Saturday morning. Dixie was struggling to breathe, and didn’t seem able to get up. We made her comfortable on the carpet beside his bed.

By sunrise she was gone.

We wrapped her in a blanket and placed her gently in the coffin that had been delivered not 48 hours before. We drove her to our farm in Henry County, where Scooter and Daddy had taken the time to dig a hole under a big live oak a mere day earlier, just so the job would be done… when the time came. Nobody thought the time would be that very weekend.

We said a few words and lowered her down in that shady spot where the Spanish Moss hangs from the limbs, swaying in the breeze.

But we didn’t have time to linger because my husband had an appointment to get to. It was with a bird dog breeder in Lake City, Florida. He had struck a deal weeks ago—again, over my objections—to purchase a Llewellyn Setter pup, and because the breeder had been out of the country for some time, this was the date they had previously set for “Boone” to come home to us.

Of all days, I thought.

We got in the truck and headed south, still heavy with grief. By the afternoon, we were back home watching a lanky pup slide clumsily all over the hardwood.

We will never get over Dixie, and the way her departure played out—the whole family at home by her side, the timely delivery of my parents’ tribute, and the seamless transition from one ending to a new beginning—left us with no choice but to acknowledge divine influence.

A deist would call the timing of all that a coincidence. But I’ve lived long enough to know that a coincidence is just a moment where God chooses to remain anonymous. He orders our steps and numbers our days—even the days of old dogs from the pound.